


In My Head

by grammarpolice



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Big Brother Shiro (Voltron), Captured Keith, Captured Shiro, Coping mechanism, Crying Keith (Voltron), Drowning, Electrocution, Emotional, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hallucinations, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Infection, Injections, Keith (Voltron) Angst, Keith (Voltron) Needs a Hug, Keith (Voltron) Whump, Keith (Voltron) has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Mind Games, Mouth Sewn Shut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Torture, Prisoner Keith (Voltron), Prisoner Shiro (Voltron), Protective Shiro (Voltron), Protective Team, Psychological Torture, Scars, Shiro (Voltron) Whump, Tags May Change, Team, Team as Family, Torture, Violence, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-06-24 05:37:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19717306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grammarpolice/pseuds/grammarpolice
Summary: Keith wakes to the smell of piss and blood.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: i would rate this M not T but i thought it would hypocritical because i'm a teen. that being said, if you are sensitive to gore and pain please don't read
> 
> there's a scene later in this chapter that describes a mask; i picture it as the ones from saw so if you would like a visual look up "saw bucket room"

It ignites his veins, unadulterated static frequency surging through every fraction of his body. He convulses against the table, all vertebrae in his spine flaring with unbridled electric force.

It pauses for a moment before erupting through his bloodstream once again, tearing through his muscles, veins, and tissue with indubitable rage. He seizes, restrains serving as the only factor between him and the floor. A scream rattles the thick air and it takes him a senseless moment to realize it belongs to him. With a pang of voltage, his stomach lurches, writhing against his flesh in a last stitch effort to escape its own body from the inside out.

Escape the pain.

He stifles a gag as his heart pulsates in time with the throb of his skull like a metronome of life.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Haze floods his senses, lulling him from the brink of reality as bright streaks spindling the room around him with vicious claws, his screams submissive to the consuming roar of his own blood that pounds and thrashes against his eardrums. His heart beats faster and faster behind his ribcage, lodging steel knuckles between each bone as it claws up the blood lining of his esophagus, tearing ribbons of muscle with each imprint. A choked exhale escapes his clenched jaw, dying the moment it hits the air and he thinks he screams again but it’s lost between the static of agony and he can’t make it—

Stop.

As his heart beats out of his chest and his body flinches against the table, the electricity yields. He sputters against the metal, fitful exhales wriggling from his mouth as he struggles to latch onto reality.

“Are you ready to cooperate yet, paladin?”

Keith huffs, cracking open an eyelid. The world around him is blurry and spotted, pain seething at his senses and begging him back into unconsciousness. However, he lets out a growl instead, and with a voice that drips disdain whispers, “fuck you.” Despite himself, he sloshes a dry tongue around his metallic tainted gums, gathering a wad of blood-infused saliva and spitting it at the man’s face.

The man grimaces, wipes a purple hand down his face, and locks eyes with Keith, retinas blazing a whirling fire. He swipes at the boy’s neck, the latter failing to stifle a yelp as fingers constrict around his throat. The man has sharp nails, like the fangs of a dog, that dig into Keith’s flesh with no mercy. “Don’t ever disrespect me again,” he whispers, breath thick and hot on Keith’s face. He releases the paladin sharply, throwing his hand away and disgust and turning to someone hidden from Keith’s line of sight. “Turn it to level eight,” he growls out.

“But sir, that could stop his heart,” replies another, meekly.

“Level eight,” the man hisses. “And tighten those restraints-- what is this, a fucking circus?”

“Of course, sir.”

With heavy footsteps that shake the floor, another man waddles into Keith’s view. He wears a mask over his face like a blacksmith, and he fiddles with the restrictions around the boy’s limbs, the chains strangling the latter’s wrists.

“His legs too, you buffoon.”

The subordinate bows, scuffling across the room to repeat the previous action upon Keith’s ankles. Once finished, he disappears from the boy’s view.

Straining his neck, Keith raises his head just enough to steal a glimpse of the room. It’s small, much like the size of a kitchen or large bathroom, with purple smeared walls and bright light overhead. The man-- the inferior, as it seems-- has taken his place near a boxed machine. Wires sprout from the control panel, stretching across the room and making a home on Keith’s bare temples, chest, and arms with stout stands that resemble a suction cup.

Keith groans, allowing his head to fall back against the harsh surface of the iron table. With a horrible ticking sound, the dial he’s grown all too familiar towards revs up.

At the highest caliber, electricity courses through his bloodstream with the magnitude of a power line. He screams, throat tearing raw against his own will. His heart, in fact, does feel like it's exploding, lurching, contorting inside his chest and all he can do is try to breathe past it, in, out, through whatever airway is void from the crushing mass that settles in his blood.

It reminds him of the time he was twelve and shocked his hand on a climber at the playground, the static energy exchanged between the equipment and his fingerprints sending him recoiling.

Only this is much, much worse.

For a terrifying moment, he thinks he is dying.

Every blood vessel in his body shreds like pieces of scrap paper, static electricity tearing at the seams. His limbs spasm against the chains, pushing, pulling, thrashing into his flesh as anguish inflated screams dislodge from his larynx and plague the thick atmosphere.

Then, as fast as it came, the energy departed, leaving Keith reeling on the edge of unconscious. Strangled inhales flooded his diaphragm, heaving his ignited chest up and down.

“Let's try again, shall we. Where’s the Castle of Lions?”

Keith forces open his eyes, blinking away the blinding light and faded figures. “I-I’m never g-gonna te--ll you,” he spits.

A sinister grin plays on the man’s face. “Oh, but you will. In time, young paladin, in time.”

There’s a ruffle and the restraints around Keith’s limbs tighten.

“Level ten.”

Keith doesn’t quite know when, exactly, the darkness overthrew the pain. He thinks it was some time after level 15, but with the muddled disorder of his brain he can't be sure.

He lets out a low groan, slumping further against what he can only assume is a wall. With a shaky breath, he reaches a hand to cradle his throbbing head. His fingertips collide with something hard before being forced back to the ground with a thud.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pressurizing his eyelids into the land of the living. They flutter open, struggling to adjust to the darkness of the room. Blockade lingers on the edge of his peripheral vision, forcing his gaze into a slit. The mask is heavier than he remembers, weighing on his sore neck. From what he can tell, the contraption encloses the entirety of his head like an upside down bucket. An outside potency opposes gravity, holding the mask up. Keith’s best guess is a chain attached to both the top of the mask and the north side of the wall.

Over tight restrains constrict around his wrist, whittling the skin away with each movement that exceeds the height of his skull.

The room reeks with the smell of piss and blood, the potency striking Keith like a gut punch when he breathes through his nose. It’s small, with an iron door to the right of him. A dim, purple light hangs overhead, providing Keith with just enough illumination to make out the form opposite him. Shiro’s head hangs low, chain the only thing keeping him upright.

“Shiro,” Keith says, hoarse. “Shiro. Wake up.”

Across the room, Shiro stirs, raising his head. “You’re back.”

Keith nods. “From one hell to another.”

“Touché.”

Keith imagines Shiro’s face is hard, lips dwindled into a thin line that curves just at the corners; a remnant of the interaction.

“You okay?” Shiro asks after a moment.

“Yeah,” Keith says. “Nothing worse than usual. Just a headache and some aftershocks.” He pauses, frowning as Shiro’s fitful breaths become a backing track to the silence of the room. “Are you?”

“Well, as good as anyone with a bullet in his leg can be.”

Keith smirks. “Oh, yeah. The medical care here is exquisite. I mean, really, top notch.”

Shiro chuckles. “Never seen better.”

A jiggle at the door sends Keith’s heart jumping, injecting cold blood through his veins. He stiffens, bones numbing rigid, as two guards step into the cell, the stale air and illumination from outside infusing the room in unfamiliarity. Keith screws his eyelids shut, jerking his head to the left in a feeble attempt to shield himself from the light.

Behind the guards, the man from before emerges, scanning his eyes across the small room. “Grab the paladin,” he orders.

For a terrifying moment, they face Shiro.

Keith bares his teeth, ready to writhe against the chains and let all hell break loose, when they turn toward him instead.

Regardless of how fucked up it is, he relaxes. If he goes, that means Shiro doesn’t have to. And that’s enough.

He barely resists as the guards lead him out of the room, deciding that if he cooperates in a civilized fashion they’ll leave Shiro alone.

As the door to the room slams shut, Shiro struggles against the chains, screaming “take me, take me instead!”

And for once in his life, Keith is happy the Galra don’t listen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW, as always

Keith’s not sure how long they’ve been there. After a while, time has a way of melting into itself.

His best guess is that it’s been a couple of days. Any more and Shiro would have bled out by now. Luckily, the wound is in his thigh, meaning there’s no obstruction to any vital organs, but still, he’s already lost a lot-- too much-- blood and without proper medical care--

Keith swallows the thought with a grimace, clenching his jaw as the guard shoves him forward.

The hallway is as dark as always, walls bare and void of anything but sealed doors and dim, purple lights.

Keith stiffens as they near the electrocution room.

Throughout his time at the prison, two constants have undoubtedly remained the same. One, the man and his henchmen always take Keith, never Shiro. And two, they exclusively use electricity to torture him.

Once, after Keith had returned from a particularly brutal electrocution, he and Shiro had discussed theories. They’d decided that the Galra are exploiting two different methods to break them. Keith faces physical torment, while Shiro’s is psychological; no acknowledgment of his presence and left in isolation for hours on end with no means of protecting Keith.

The red paladin is pulled from his thoughts as the all too familiar chamber awaits no more than a few feet ahead. He almost winces, biting the reverberation back with a clenched jaw.

Only, the man and his henchmen continue passed the door without a bat of the eye. Keith frowns in thought, mulling over various scenarios in his head. Does he have the directions wrong? Is the room the next left? Are they testing a scare tactic?

As if in Keith’s mind, the man, without so much as sparing a glance toward the former, says, “it’s become quite clear that our previous… actions are not operating as intended, so, I’ve decided that different procedures are in order. Perhaps this time you’ll consider making yourself a little more resourceful, huh, paladin?”

Keith opens his mouth to retort but the words die on his tongue. He hasn’t the slightest idea where he’s being taken, much less rather what ploys the man has in order. At least for now, he decides, it’s better to keep his mouth shut.

 _Lance should try it sometime_ , he thinks, the ghost of a smile arising on his lips.

“What the fuck are you grinning about,” spits one of the guards, unleashing a broad forearm into Keith’s shoulder. The latter pulls a face as the bones collide, staggering back at the force.

The man whips his head around and Keith prepares himself for a sucker punch to the jaw. However, what greets the paladin is much, much worse.

The former wears a smirk-- a malicious, venomous, almost euphoric smirk. “Well, not to worry, my dear Hodux,” he tells the guard, halting in front of a large, purple door. “He won’t be smiling for much longer.”

“What is the Castle of Lions’ greatest weakness?” the man asks, voice scrambled, lost between the layer of glacial water dividing he and Keith.

Hodux constricts his fingers around Keith’s skull with a forceful grunt, tearing the paladin from the liquid with a harsh flinch. Keith winces as every muscle in his neck strains against its own body, deprived of gravity. For a moment, he just breathes in stale air, filling his throbbing lungs with heavy exhales that burn his tattered esophagus. A ruthless pain settles in his ribs, a remnant of the metal rim that had nestled between bone and tissue moments earlier, pushing against his skin with each gulp. “‘m not gonna ‘ell you,” he sputters.

“Okay,” the man concurs. He turns to his henchmen, who hold Keith’s shivering form above the water trough. “Hodux, Zexol, do the honors.”

Keith stiffens, bracing himself as the guards force his head back under the water. He tries to resist, struggle against their hold with thrashing limbs, but, as he’s already learned, they’re too strong. So, instead, he focuses on rationing his breath, relaxing his muscles to preserve energy and captivating dwindling air in his chest. His lungs feel like they're shriveling up, contorting and pleading against his diagram as his senses sink further into darkness.

The last of the air escapes through his nostrils and he’s heaving, choking on water that replaces oxygen in his lungs as the grip around his hair hardens, tearing upwards with a yanking motion. Upon breaking the surface, liquid infused coughs override failed gulps of air and if it weren’t for Hodux and Zexol’s firm holds around his biceps, he’d collapse to the grund.

“What is the Castle of Lions’ greatest weakness?” the man asks, voice low. His breath is thick and sour on Keith’s skin, sinister mouth so close to the latter’s ear that they’re nearly touching.

Keith growls, baring his teeth like a dog as heavy pants drip off his tongue. “I… I-- f-fuck yo-u,” he spits.

A flare of vexation flashes across the man’s face before quickly being replaced with a hostile grin. His mouth, the red paladin notices with a wince, sports a set of jagged, nearly fang-like teeth. From the corner of his eye, Keith watches as the man pulls a slim knife from his belt. It’s small, no longer than a handheld action figure, but the blade looks sharp, keen. The man takes a stride forward, halting to the direct right side of Keith. He claps a jarring hand around the boy’s jaw, forcing it to the side with one swift motion. The man’s honed and untamed nails dig into Keith’s flesh, making movement an unlikely occurrence.

Then, he pushes the blade against Keith’s cheek, not far under his right eye, the pressure just enough to draw a line of blood. “Every time you look at your face,” he starts, pausing as he thrusts the blade deeper into Keith’s skin and begins pulling downward, “I want you to remember that I’m the one who broke you.”

He lets out a hardy, exhilarated chuckle, pulling away a red-tainted blade and wiping the excess blood off on Keith’s left cheek.  
The red paladin isn’t sure where the abrasion starts nor ends. Considering the liquid trickling down his cheek and the stinging feeling settling between his flesh, he thinks it’s left quite the large track mark, spanning from about the outer corner of his eye to just right of where his lips meet.

“Alright, boys,” the man starts. “Let’s get back to work, shall we?”

He’s dunked once again, water taking a red tint and clouding around his flesh.

Keith awakes to the darkness of the cell and his own heavy breathing.

He groans, pushing himself up from his sprawled out position on the floor and wincing as the chain catches the flesh of his wrists. He slumps against the wall, leaning his head into the concrete and allowing the throbbing in his head an instant of subcision. For a moment, he wonders why his skull feels lighter than usual before realizing the mask is gone, the restraints around his wrists the only means to keep him in place.

He frowns. If they removed the headpiece, that means they think he’s getting weaker.

Closer to breaking.

_“Every time you look at your face,”_

He shifts, attempting to chase unwanted thoughts from his mind.

_“I want you to remember that I’m the one who broke you.”_

Shiro’s labored breathing pulls him for his muse. As per usual, the black paladin sits across the cell, though this time, his mask is, too, removed. His head hangs low, nestled into his chest in submission to unconsciousness.

At least, that's what Keith hopes it is.

He shakes his head as if to rid it from pessimistic thoughts before saying, “Shiro. Shiro, wake up. You have to stay awake.”

For a paralyzing moment, the black paladin exhibits no indications of awareness. Then, with a low groan that returns the breath back into Keith’s lungs, he rouses, slightly shaking his skull side to side.

“Come on, buddy, raise your head,” Keith prompts.

Ever so slowly, Shiro obliges, straightening up before slumping back against the wall, this time locking eyes with Keith. “I missed t’at face,” he slurs.

Keith smiles. “I missed yours, too. Happy the masks are off?”

Shiro nods. He takes a moment to study Keith’s face in the dim light.“You’re bledin,’ ‘eith.,” he concludes, frowning.

“Yeah,” is all the boy says, bringing fingertips to run gingerly across the mark on his cheek. “It’s dry now, though, don’t worry.”

“‘m always gonna worry.”

Keith’s insides flutter at the comment, the safety the words hold knowing someone cares about him. “I’m okay, really.” He pauses, taking in Shiro’s slumped form and shivering demeanor. “Anyways,” he adds, “you’re the one to be worried about. How’re you doing?”

No response.

“Shiro?”

There's a shuffle across the room, followed by a pained grunt. “Sorry-- ‘m okay.”

“Oh, yeah, clearly,” Keith sighs, rolling his eyes. “You gotta stay awake.” He thinks for a moment before suggesting, “let’s talk, okay?”

“About what?”

“Anything-- just keep talking.”

“Okay… you know what I miss most about the castle?”

“What?”

“Hunk’s cooking.”

Keith hums, allowing his eyes to slip closed at the memory. “Me too,” he agrees.

“Like,” Shrio continues, “I miss waking up to a huge breakfast that was completely unnecessary and seeing Hunk just standing there with a proud look on his face because he couldn’t wait to show us…” he trails off, voice choking up over the syllables of Hunk’s name. “A-and I miss Pidge’s all-nighters, and Coran’s weird facts about Altea, and Allura looking all confused at basic human things… and I even miss having to drag Lance from his video games when we have to train.”

Keith’s heart pulls at the mention of his teammates and all he’s able to muster out is another, “me too.” He shifts around once again, noticing a trend in using the movement to escape the pain of remembrance.

Of loss.

“Shiro?” he asks after a moment.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think-- do you think they’re looking for us?”

Shiro thinks for a moment. “I don’t know,” he says, finally. “I like to think they are-- I mean, if you think about it, they have to, don’t they? We’re two paladins. They can’t afford to lose both of us.”

Keith nods. _Or they could replace us,_ he thinks, though he decides against vocalizing it, instead, allowing silence to fall between them.

He settles on pulling against restraints, the gravitational resistance of the chains entertaining his brain just enough to focus all of his energy on the seemingly pointless task.

Pull.

Pushed back.

Pull.

Pushed back.

Pull--

“Keith?”

Keith pauses. “Yeah?” he replies, allowing his hand to lull against his lap.

Shiro’s voice is low, almost a whisper. “I,” he starts. “I think my wound is infected.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait, i was on vacation! 
> 
> i actually took a line from one of my past works so if something seems familiar that's it
> 
> as always, thanks for reading <3


	3. Chapter 3

Keith thinks it’s been a couple of days since they realized the wound was infected.

The black paladin's initial adrenaline has long died down, leaving him frail and exhausted most of the time. The remainder, he’s lost somewhere between the line of reality and unconsciousness. Keith’s come to realize that he prefers the former.

“What did it feel like?” he asks one day, slumping further against the wall. “Getting shot, I mean.”

Shiro shrugs, movements slow as he lifts hooded eyes to meet Keith’s gaze. “Dunno,” he says, absent-minded. Then, he thinks for a moment, like he’s becoming slightly more aware, before adding: “At first, I felt nothin’... I didn't-- I didn’t even know I was shot. And then-- imagine someone sticks a smoldering rod of metal, or-- or an iron or something, into your thigh and leaves it there. I think that’s the best way to describe it.”

“That’s when you screamed, right?” 

Shiro takes a fitful breath, hanging his head low. He groans, tension prominent in his jaw as he grits his teeth.

“You okay, Shiro?”

“Yeah, jus’ hurts. I-I don’t think I screamed.”

Keith frowns. “No, you did. I--I heard it. Yeah, I was fighting guards with… with… fuck, I can’t remember, but I was with one of the other paladins and I heard you screaming. So I started running in your direction and that’s when I was--- well, you know.”

Shiro’s face visibly pales and Keith isn’t sure if it’s because of the guilt or fever. “I’m sorry, Keith,” he whispers.

“No--no, it’s okay. Really, it’s, it’s fine...”

“Shiro?”

Shiro’s shaking, shoulders hunched and shuddering, face flushed a bright red. He screws his eyes shut as he constricts chained hands around his thigh. He gasps, exasperated, a single tear trickling down from bloodshot, swollen eyes. “... fuck,” he whispers, almost incoherently. “It ‘urts, Keith.”

Keith’s heart twits and he bites down hard on his own cracked lips. “I know, buddy. But, you gotta stay awake. We’re gonna get outta here, okay? You just gotta stay awake. Please.”

Shiro shivers. “I'm tired, Keith.”

"I know, bud. Me, too. Just stay awake," says Keith. 

Through a cough, the black paladin responds, "I d-don't think I can anymore." 

Keith breath hitches in his throat. "You can, Shiro."

“I c-can’t.”

“You can.”

Shiro takes a breath, lifting eyes that speak a thousand words. “Th-thank you. For everythin,” he whispers.

"Don't say that!" Keith shouts He struggles against the chains, fighting, pulling against the concrete to get to Shiro but he can't break free.

"You can do it, buddy--" 

"Not without you!" 

"--You can beat them." With a final smile, a final goodbye, Shiro's head lulls, collapsing against his shoulder as his whole body goes limp.

Keith’s mind goes blank.

“Shiro. Shiro, please! Please don’t leave me!” he yells, words rolling off his tongue like water, shouts echoing off the walls of the cell so loud he barely acknowledges the notorious doorknob jiggle that usually skyrockets him from his skin.

Shiro isn't waking up.

But, he always wakes up.

Why isn’t Shiro waking up?

“Shiro!” he shouts, and even his own voice sounds like it’s underwater.

All too familiar fingers constrict around Keith’s arms but they’re lightyears away, nothing but a faint tug forcing him from the ground. His legs feel numb, like undried concrete, modable, untouchable, surreal, but he’s propelling forward all the same and a certain pressure settles against his limbs that has him thinking otherwise.

He’s moving-- farther and farther away from Shiro. He screams, thrashing against Hodux and Zexol’s holds, clawing at the door as they pry him away from his brother because they need to understand.

Why don’t they understand?

“He’s gonna die!” he tries to tell them. “You gotta help him. Please, I’ll do anything!”

They’re saying something. They're saying something, lips moving, contorting, as they drag him down the hallway-- away, away from his brother-- but he can’t even register the words because all he can think about is Shiro.

He thinks they’re jabbing his ribs, telling him to quiet down, trying to tow him along as he collapses to the floor. He sees the man ahead, neck swiveled around, face creased in something Keith can’t quite pinpoint, mouth snarling, fangs exposed. He’s screaming something at the guards, at the red paladin, nostrils flaring like the time Keith had spit on his face. It seems so long ago, so far away… like Shiro-- as far away as his brother who needs help-- who’s sitting, choking on his own blood and Keith can’t do anything about it but writhe and scream until his throat tears raw in this godforsaken corridor.

“Shut him up!” someone shouts. Keith think’s it’s the man, the words match the movement of his lips, but he can’t be sure.

“I’m trying, boss!”

“Try harder!”

“He’s squirming!”

“Fuck!” The man shouts, spinning around and stalking toward Keith with extended strides. “If you want something done right,” he pauses, raising a hand, “do it yourself!”

Something hard strikes Keith in the back of the head and he feels his arms, then his torso, then his legs give out as he collapses to the floor.

At least, that's what he thinks happens.

Something in the room shifts, a loss of gravity, of awareness, stagnant blurs replacing already hazed vision.

And then everything turns black.

“Oh, you’re awake. It’s better not to struggle.”

Keith blinks, a feeble attempt to rid the blinding light from his view. He feels strange, almost weightless, like he’s on a cloud. He blinks again, clearing some of the haze from his senses.

From what he can make out, the man is hunched above him, hands moving in and out of his line of vision. He tries to shift, get a better look at his surroundings, but something keeps him in place. A pressure straps across his body and he’s been in way too many restraints as of late to not recognize their gravitational force. Pain pricks his upper lip and he finds himself grimacing at the warm liquid that trickles down his lips.

He opens his mouth to retort, asks what’s happening, but he… can’t. Pressure forces his lips together, resisting the strength of his jaw as he struggles to pry them apart. Pain ignites across the skin around his mouth, screaming in pain until he relaxes his muscles, submitting to the outside force.

“Done,” the man voices, a note of euphoria present in his tone. “You see, paladin, after your little… er, episode in the hallway I realized that I’ve begun to grow quite tired of your voice. You haven’t been much help, anyway. So, I found a solution. But, don’t you worry, the stitches can and will be removed in time… when I feel that you are ready to… cooperate. Until then, I’ll have Zexol give you another sedative and return you to your cell. We’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow.”

Keith’s eyes widen as realization hits.

His mouth is stitched shut.

His lips are sewn together.

Another prick, this time in his neck, drags him back to reality, pushing his thoughts to the backburner as cold liquid slithers through his veins.

And everything goes black again.

Keith wakes to the smell of piss and blood.

He frowns, recognizing the potency as the scent of his cell. His lips feel like fire ants burrowed small holes into his skin and nestled in the muscle tissue, unforgiving. He slumps further against what he can only assume is the wall, allowing his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light as he blinks them open.

Shiro’s limp form flutters into view and the events of the last few hours hit Keith like a truck.

He opens his mouth to yell, shout Shiro’s name until his lungs ache, but his lips catch on each other with harsh prods. 

Frantic, he begins pounding chained fists into the concrete, floor thundering beneath him, bones igniting at the pressure. He screams, the sound ricocheting, reverberating against his vocal cords, nothing but a screeching sound escaping passed guarded lips.

Shiro isn’t waking up.

Keith feels himself crumple to the floor, senses lost, still making that awful screeching sound because it’s the only thing he can think to do.

He’s crying now, sobs tearing from his lungs as he chokes on his own tongue, leaving him with no choice but to swallow the whimpers back.

The underwater feeling returns with a sudden pang, sending Keith’s vision into a black abyss, and he’s still making that screeching sound as the realization hits him.

_“What happened?” Shiro asked, face creased in worry as he threw down his bike and ran to Keith, who sat on the pavement, cradling his knee that bled sluggishly down his shin._

_The boy looked up with teary eyes. “I hit a curb,” he said, quite. He looked toward his bike, face fallen. The wheel was bent, bride scratched, seat twisted in the opposite direction. “I think it’s broken.”_

_To his surprise, Shiro just chuckled. “I do, too,” he said. ‘It’s okay. I’ll get you a new one. That one was old, anyway.”_

_“You’re not mad?” asked Keith._

_Shiro crouched down next to him, placing a gentle hand atop his helmet. “Of course not.” He frowns when he sees Keith’s knee. “I’m gonna go get you a bandaid. Stay here, okay?”_

_Keith’s breath caught in his throat. “Please don’t leave me,” he whispered sheepishly._

_Shiro smiled. “The house is right there,” he said, pointing to a small brick house. “I’m not gonna leave you.”_

‘But you _did_ leave me!’ Keith wants to yell. Anger flares through his veins and he slams his fists into the ground, pounding again and again until his knuckles bleed.

‘You left me.’

His eyes trickle to Shiro's lifeless body. Just another stain on the cell floor. Another mark of galran victory. Another trophy. Keith hits his head against the wall, skull erupting with injections of pain as concrete meets the bone. 

‘Alone.’

_"Every time you look at your face,"_

'What am I supposed to do without you?' 

_"I want you to remember that I'm the one who broke you."_

And from across the cell, Shiro exhibits the same gentle smile he'd been wearing when Keith was taken from the cell. 

_"You can do it, buddy,"_ it said. _"You can beat them."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that escalated quickly. 
> 
> how do you ruin a work in one chapter? you ask. post something like this. this s is—straight up— the worst thing I’ve ever read in my life (not being dramatic). I’m actually so so sorry 
> 
> also, i'm sorry for doing-- well, um, *that*-- to you. but please just trust me and mind the warnings... i promise it'll be okay. 
> 
> anyway, i've been waiting to do this for a while. 
> 
> let me know what you think. 
> 
> and please don't hurt me. 
> 
> as always, thanks for reading <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't read this through so don't hesitate to point out any incorrect spelling, mistakes, and inconsistencies
> 
> this chapter gets a little graphic so as always if you're sensitive to that please be cautious

_“You know this can’t keep happening, right?”_

_Keith shifted in the passenger’s seat, stare falling to his bandaged knuckles. He wrung his fingers together, a frown pulling on his lips. “Yeah, I know,” he mumbled._

_Shiro shifted his gaze from the road, allowing his eyes to graze across Keith’s downcast features. The latter sported a swollen eye, split lip, and bloodied cupid’s bow. “Geez, Keith,” he said. “You really did a number on yourself.”_

_Keith huffed. “I didn’t, Charlie Bowz did.”_

_Shiro let out a chuckle, skin creasing around the corner of his lips. “Really though, Keith,” he said, sobering. “I can’t be scraping you off the pavement every time someone says a mean thing.”_

_Keith took a long breath. “I know,” he said finally, head still hanging low as he ran a hand over his bruising eye gingerly. “But, Shiro, what if that’s all they say?”_

_Shiro thought for a moment. “There are a lot of bad people in the world, buddy; more bad than good. But my dad used to say that if you let every mean comment get to you, then the bad people win. You gotta act like it doesn’t bother you, even if it does. Make sense?”_

_Keith nodded. “Yeah. Just, they—they’re just such assholes,” he sighed._

_Shiro’s eyes widened. “Keith, language!” he scolded, albeit half-hearted._

_Keith rolled his eyes. “I’m in middle school, Shiro,” he scoffed. “That’s nothing compared to the stuff you hear in the hallway.”_

_The older boy’s face softened. “Ahh, middle school,” he mused, sarcastic. “What a gift.” He chuckled, tightening his grip around the steering wheel as he took a right turn. “They are assholes though, aren’t they?”_

_Keith smiled. “Oh, the worst,” he replied. “I won, though. The fight, I mean.”_

_Despite himself, Shiro let out a whoop. “Good,” he said. “No little brother of mine is gonna lose to some bully.”_

_Keith froze at the pet name. “Little brother?” he asked, taken aback._

_Shiro shrugged, expression unfazed. “Yeah, I mean you kind of are. You live with me and… and I think that makes us family.” He paused, concern racking on his features as he scanned Keith’s bewildered expression. “Is that alright with you?”_

_Keith nodded, a slight shake to his form. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, it’s alright.”_

“Good morning, paladin!” the man chirps, emerging into Keith’s line of sight. He wears his usual grin, teeth just barely visible through a slit where his lips meet. “How’re the stitches feeling? Almost healed up?”

Keith growls, the reverberation convulsing against his frayed throat and dying at sealed lips. He grits his teeth as the man’s smirk grows. Restraints chafe against his flesh, urging him to shift, fight against the chains and leather, but he’s already learned that resisting only causes more pain. So instead, he lays still against the table, running a tongue thick with dehydration across the ridges on the roof of his mouth and scowling at the man.

Anger flares across the latter’s features, his eyes sharping to the size of pins. “Answer me!” he shouts, cupping a firm hand over Keith’s jaw and squeezing down hard, forcing the boy to meet his eyes. Then, almost immediately, his expression switches to one of amusement. He howls like a hyena, jagged teeth contorting into a forged smile as he releases Keith’s head. “Best to just get started, then,” he says.

He shuffles out of sight, heavy footsteps following his departure like clockwork. The sound of metal clattering together echoes from behind Keith, and he’s come to realize that it’s the man choosing his tool for the day. The latter returns no more than a moment later, brandishing a large bolt cutter in front of the boy’s face.

Keith screws his eyes shut as the man creeps closer, knowing better than to watch the inevitable before it even begins. He feels the tool brush against his torso as if to tease what’s happening next, before hooking onto his flesh like metal talons, sharp and impaling. Blood drains from Keith’s skin, painting his abdomen in metallic stripes. He screams in his throat as the cutters breakthrough skin, though nothing but pathetic whimpers making it passed the stitches. With a jarring pressure, the tool shifts, prodding against his spleen before nestling underneath his top left rib. Slowly, they close around his bone. He grunts, stifling a gag as his rib contorts inside his chest, shying from the metal.

He hears it before he feels it.

A snapping sound like a branch splitting.

Like a bone breaking.

And then it hits him.

He screams again, mouth resisting as his jaw spasms, sending his head shaking in a last stitch effort to escape the pain. His rib digs into his flesh, willing to break free from his body, scraping against his muscle tissue with two sharp ends that stick straight up. Vomit shoots up his esophagus and he swallows it down, grimacing as it slithers back into his stomach with nothing but a trail of acidic bile left in its wake.

He peels open an eyelid, wincing as bright light replaces darkness. The man hovers above him, eyes lit up in a euphoria that Keith can’t quite pinpoint. Taking a breath, the red paladin lifts his head up, only slightly, straining each muscle in his neck to catch a glimpse of the damage.

And, at that moment, he almost wishes he hadn’t.

His torso’s painted in blood, skin pulled back to expose geysers that brim with muscle tissue and the metallic liquid. His rib sticks out of his flesh in two places, white caps in a sea of red, the surrounding flesh swollen and angry. He lays his head back down, chest heaving at the notion.

The man’s face swims into view. He’s still wearing that godforsaken grin, skin creasing just at the corners of his lips. Then his expression changes, like something washes over him, and his face falls, tension prominent in his jaw. Eyes vacant, he inches closer to the table, placing a hand on Keith’s jaw as if to hold him in place before grazing fingertips across the latter’s nostrils.

Then he squeezes down, blocking Keith’s only functional airway, face resurrecting in a birthed smirk of amusement, eyes wild as the boy struggles.

And for a terrifying moment, Keith wishes he was dying.

Escaping the ache of his lungs.

The void of not having Shiro there.

The pain of being alone.

Being abandoned.

But everyone always leaves him.

And he doesn’t blame them.

With a breath that forces Keith back to reality, the man’s face shifts again and he pulls back, releasing the boy’s airway. “Right,” he says, face falling mundane. “We’ve got a lot more work to do.”

_Keith growled, throwing the bat to the dirt. “I can’t do it!” he cried, frustration pooling in his eyes._

_Shiro sighed, leaning down and picking up the discarded. “You can,” he said, dusting it off. “Just focus.”_

_“I’m trying,” Keith grumbled. “I’m not even good at baseball.” He paused, thinking for a moment. “Can’t I just try out next year?”_

_Shiro shook his head, extending out the bat for Keith to take. “Nope,” he said._

_Keith huffed, but took the bat regardless. “Why not?” he asked, swinging the equipment around in his hand. It fell to the floor with a clatter and he pulled a sheepish face._

_Shiro’s features softened, a chuckle bubbling from his chest at the boy’s misfortune. “You can’t give up.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because.”_

_“Because why?”_

_“Because you need resilience.”_

_Keith groaned halfheartedly, a faint smile plastering on his lips. “Whatever,” he said, picking up the bat._

_Shiro smirked, fingering the stitching of the ball in his hand. He jogged to the pitcher’s stand, cupping a hand over his mouth and calling out, “ready?”_

_Keith shifted on home plate, tightening his grip around the wood. “Ready!” he replied._

_Shiro nodded, preparing to pitch. “Remember,” he said. “Patience yields focus.”_

Keith awakes to pain and the smell of piss, blood, and a body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm in a little bit of writer's block right now so sorry if the writing was a lil sus 
> 
> also, i'm sorry if the torture's getting really boring, but this is, most likely, the last chapter that will focus around that. so keep an eye out for chapter five 
> 
> as always, thanks for reading <3


	5. Chapter 5

The concrete is hard behind Keith’s head.

He sinks further against the wall, fitful puffs of air escaping through his nasal airway as he renders in and out of consciousness. With each inhale, his chest rises--skin catching against the shards of his ribcage--then falls, and he nearly screams that awful screeching sound that has nowhere to go but the torn lining of his throat. He lets his head lull onto his chest, eyes closing, wincing at the metallic scent that arises from his flesh.

_“There are a lot of bad people in the world, buddy.”_

The man’s jagged teeth plague the back of Keith’s eyelids. He’s howling, sneering with that fucking look on his face that’s both the most infuriating and terrifying thing Keith’s ever seen.

_“I want you to remember that I’m the one who broke you.”_

The entirety of Keith’s left ribcage, accompanied by the top bone of his right side, protrudes from his torso, making any attempt at movement a nearly impossible feat.

He thinks he’ll die soon.

Honestly, it’s a miracle—in what sense of the word, Keith’s not sure—that he’s lasted this long.

The air in the room is as stale and heavy as when he and Shiro had first been taken. The only difference now, really, is that the black paladin’s dead and Keith’s not far behind.

And he’s accepted that.

Accepted that he’s weak.

That the Galra are stronger.

That they broke him.

That they won.

_“You can’t give up.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because.”_

_“Because why?”_

_“Because you need resilience.”_

A tear rolls down Keith’s cheek. ‘I can’t do it anymore, Shiro,’ he thinks, a lump forming in his throat.

_“Then the bad people win.”_

‘I tried. I tried but I can’t do it.’ He trembles, form shuddering against the wall.

_“I can’t do it!”_

_“You can.”_

A hiccup tears inside his throat and he cries a silent sob that’s trapped behind sealed lips. ‘I’m sorry.’

_“No little brother of mine is gonna lose to some bully.”_

_“Little brother?”_

_“Yeah, I mean you kind of are. You live with me and… and I think that makes us family. Is that alright with you?_ ”

_“Yeah. Yeah, it’s alright.”_

A sound echoes from the door and his head snaps toward it instinctually.

Noise means pain.

Noise means Hodux and Zexol.

Noise means the man.

But the sound that reverberates from the door isn’t the usual jiggle of the lock. No…this is different. A pounding, desperate and relentless.

Like they’re angry.

Keith grimaces, shrinking in on himself. It hurts when they’re angry.

The door opens, falling to the floor with a clatter as light floods in, and Keith yelps, burrowing his face in the crook of his elbow. There are footsteps rushing towards him, thundering against the concrete beneath him, but he can’t bring himself to look up.

And there’s a frantic voice in front of him, saying something that he can’t quite decipher over the running water in his ears.

He wines pathetically, shying his head further from the person, sinking deeper into the corner as if he can disappear into the wall completely.

“Look at me. Please look at me, Keith.”

Keith freezes.

_Keith._

His name.

They never refer to him by name. As far as he knows, they don’t even know what his name is.

Slowly, he obliges, raising his head, knowing better than to ignore an order.

His vision is blurry, nothing but incoherent streams of color as he cracks an eyelid open.

“Fuck. Fuck, Keith!”

Keith squints, blinking away the blur only slightly to make out a blue figure in front of him.

Blue—

_“Oh, you know,” Lance said nonchalant, winking at the Aikox girls. “I’m a paladin of Voltron.”_

_The girls blushed, giggles bubbling from their chests. “Which lion is yours?” one of them asked, a blush tinting her cheeks._

_“Blue,” he grinned, winking. “I’m the blue paladin.”_

Lance.

But that can’t be right.

Lance isn’t here.

He can’t be.

“Shit let me cut the restraints.”

And then the figure’s moving towards Keith too fast, too close, and he can’t help but flinch away harshly as they brush against his side.

“It’s me. It’s me. It’s Lance,” Lance says, nearly frantic. “I just need to—fuck—just need to get you out of here, okay? Stay still.”

Keith nods.

Lance is here.

At least, that what he thinks.

And he’ll take it. It’s enough.

“Good. Good, almost done. You’re doing really good, bud,” Lance rambles, as he picks at the lock.

The pressure around Keith’s wrists tightens for a moment and he winces, before it completely dissipates, chains falling to the ground with a clash.

“Can I—obviously you can’t walk,” Lance mumbles, more to himself. “I’m gonna carry you, okay?”

Keith nods and Lance leans down, preparing to scoop the former into his arms. Pain ignites through Keith’s ribcage as Lance shifts him and he screams out, stiches pulling against themselves.

“Sorry, sorry. Fuck, I can’t move you without hurting you. Fuck!”

Keith nods again, a feeble attempt to assure the blue paladin that he’s ready.

That he can take it.

Lance seems to understand, shooting him a small, apologetic half smile before wrapping his arms around Keith’s torso as gently as he can and lifting him up.

Keith bites down on his gum as white-hot pain flares through his whole body. He convulses like when he was electrocuted but exhaustion washes over him all the same, begging him to fall into the hands of darkness. His eyelids falter, suddenly too heavy on his sockets for him to compensate and he’s struggling to keep them open. He allows his head to lull to the side, eyes scanning across the cell.

Shiro lays against the wall, surrounded in a pool of his blood, just as he had been since that day.

Keith blinks.

Now Shiro’s looking up, eyes dull and lifeless. “Good job, buddy,” he says. “You did it.” 

Keith blinks again.

The body’s gone.

But it was never really there anyway.

And he thinks he knew that all along.

_“You can do it, buddy—”_

_“Not without you!”_

_“—you can beat them.”_

That it was all in his head. 

That he was alone the whole time. 

That he couldn’t stand the thought. 

“I found him!” Lance yells from above him, though he still sounds light years away. “Shiro, I found him!” 

The ground shakes beneath Keith and there’s more footsteps running towards him, more voices that sound like bees in his eardrums

And with Lance’s warm figure pressed against his side--

_“We had a bonding moment. I cradled you in my arms!” Keith cried._

_“Fat chance,” Lance retorted._

\--he let the darkness take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i update yesterday but i just couldn't wait so here you go 
> 
> all you little detectives guessed that shiro wasn't dead, especially Svarra who was spot on, so kudos to you., thanks for spoiling XD 
> 
> alright, so that's it. 
> 
> it's been so much fun writing IMH, i appreciate all of you, 
> 
> and for the last time, thanks for reading! 
> 
> i'm just kidding. 
> 
> see you next chapter


	6. Chapter 6

“—bleeding too much—”

“—fuck, what do we do—”

“—ou hear me—”

“—blood loss—”

“—too much—”

“—can you hear—”

“—otta stay awake—”

“—mouth—”

“—can’t remove them—”

“—eith—”

“Kei—”

“—Keith—”

_“Keith?”_

_Keith pauses “Yeah?” he replies, allowing his hand to lull against his lap._

_Shiro’s voice is low, almost a whisper. “I,” he starts. “I think my wound is infected.”_

The faces above him, too blurry for him to make out, sound like they’re speaking down to him from the other end of a tunnel, words lost somewhere between the transmission.

Gravity shifts and he’s falling—down, down the tunnel and away from the people, away from the light, detaching from his own body, and there’s a horrible screeching sound-- _loud, too loud_ —in his ears and he wants to tell it to shut up, be quiet because he can’t think over all the pain but there’s a reverberation, a friction rubbing against his vocal cords and it takes him a moment too long to realize the noise belongs to him.

_Noise means pain._

_Noise means Hodux and Zexol._

_Noise means the man._

He screws his eyes shut and then gravity’s shifting again and there’s a breath in his ear that’s too hot, like the salty liquid that burns his face, and he can’t breathe over the crushing weight on his chest.

“—shh, it’s okay—”

“—you‘re oka—”

_“You okay?” Shiro asks after a moment._

_“Yeah,” Keith says. “Nothing worse than usual. Just a headache and some aftershocks.” He pauses, frowning as Shiro’s fitful breaths become a backing track to the silence of the room. “Are you?”_

_“Well, as good as anyone with a bullet in his leg can be.”_

“—stay awake, please—”

_“Shiro. Shiro, wake up. You have to stay awake.”_

_Ever so slowly, Shiro obliges, straightening up before slumping back against the wall._

Keith tries to peel open his eyelids, obey the voice, _he knows better than to ignore an order_ , but everything’s too heavy, too full, like jugs of water on his eye sockets, pulling down, down farther and farther into the tunnel until all he can hear is his own blood pumping, crashing against his eardrums and that awful screeching sound.

_Keith growled, throwing the bat to the dirt. “I can’t do it!” he cried, frustration pooling in his eyes._

_Shiro sighed, leaning down and picking up the discarded. “You can,” he said, dusting it off. “Just focus.”_

_“I’m trying.”_

‘I’m trying.’

_“Remember,” Shiro said. “Patience yields focus.”_

Keith grits his teeth, reaching a hand out and grasping onto something— his own arm—a lifeline, a way to attach himself to his body that feels weightless, untouchable, but heavy all the same and he’s trying to focus, _patience yields focus_ , but he can’t, he can’t, and everything’s too confused and loud in his head.

_Then, the man pushes the blade against Keith’s cheek, not far under his right eye, the pressure just enough to draw a line of blood. “Every time you look at your face,” he starts, pausing as he thrusts the blade deeper into Keith’s skin and begins pulling downward, “I want you to remember that I’m the one who broke you.”_

_“--that I’m the one who broke you—”_

_“Turn it to level eight,” the man growls out._

_“But sir, that could stop his heart,” replies another, meekly._

He’s suffocating, lungs shriveling up, _hot, too hot_ , he needs to get away, run, hide, _away_ , but a pressure’s holding him down, trapping him in place--

_“Level eight. And tighten those restraints—what is this, a fucking circus?”_

\--and he thrashes, shaking his head because he has to get away, away from the man and Hodux and Zexol and pain.

_“Let’s try again, shall we. Where’s the castle of Lion’s?”_

_Keith forces open his eyes, blinking away the blinding lights and faded figures. “I-I’m never g-gonna te--ll you,” he spits._

_A sinister grin plays on the man’s face. “Oh, but you will. In time, young paladin, in time.”_

“—calm down—”

“—eith!—”

_“You okay?” Shiro asks after a moment--_

_“I want you to remember that I’m the one who broke you.”_

_\--“Yeah,” Keith says. “Nothing worse than usual.”_

His head spins, the colors, voices, pain, merges into one, painting the sky in starts and stripes of frequency and he can’t— _breathe_ \-- can’t focus, and he’s still thrashing, still making that awful screeching sound--

_“I want you to remember that I’m the one who broke you.”_

“—please—”

“—you need to breathe—”

“—too much blood—”

“—don’t sleep y—”

“—sedative—”

_“Until then, I’ll have Zexol give you another sedative and return you to your cell—”_

It smells like blood and piss.

_“Don’t you worry, the stitches can and will be removed in time.”_

He screams. It’s hot, too hot--

_“You okay?” Shiro asks after a moment—_

_“I want you to remember that I’m the one who broke you.”_

_\--“Yeah,” Keith says. “Nothing worse than usual.”_

_-_ -something pokes into his neck, into his veins—

_“Shiro. Shiro, please! Please don’t leave me!” Keith yells, words rolling off his tongue like water, shouts echoing off the cell so loudly he barley acknowledges the notorious doorknob jiggle that usually skyrockets him from his skin._

_Shiro isn’t waking up._

\--and it’s cold and he’s so tired—

_But Shiro always wakes up._

\--and then the tunnel’s closing and he’s falling, far, far away, passed the voices and the man and Hodux and Zexol and pain—

_“You okay?” Shiro asks after a moment._

_“Are you?”_

_“Well, as good as anyone with a bullet in his leg can be.”_

\--and Lance and Shiro— "

_The girls blushed, giggle bubbling from their chests. "Which lion is yours?"_

_"Blue," Lance grinned, winking. "I'm the blue paladin."_

_\--and the cell and the piss and the blood—_

_“Every time you look at your face,” the man starts, pausing as he thrusts the blade deeper into Keith’s skin and begins pulling downward,_

\--and the body--

_“I want you to remember that I’m the one who broke you.”_

\--and he hits the bottom.

The next time Keith falls, it’s into the arms of his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've decided to end this fic here. 
> 
> i may, in the future, write the recovery and make it a collection. i just felt as though i'm proud of this work and don't wanna screw it up with a crappy recovery. plus, i'm working on a new project. 
> 
> thank you for all your love on IMH, your comments and love have meant so much to me.


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